


An Invitation

by jumponvaljean (whoatherejavert)



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, this is not a fandom it's a serious problem
Genre: AU, AU where everyone wants to be sass master of Paris, Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Seine, also Cosette is a cutie patootie and Marius gets drunk, also Javert is bleeding again, also cosette totally ships these two, and Valjean is the best 'bitch please so done with your shit' old french dude you've ever met, i swear to the bishop of digne that it's not crack but it makes me laugh anyway, i'm not sorry it's too cute to be sorry about, in which Javert takes every opportunity to express dislike of Marius
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 06:46:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whoatherejavert/pseuds/jumponvaljean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU Post-Seine established Valvert. </p><p>Javert and Valjean receive an invitation to Marius's birthday dinner. Javert doesn't want to go and a veritable sass-battle of wills ensues. There's also fluff and wine and scowling and pathetic excuses and I should really be able to write a decent summary by now but I CAN'T so suck it.</p><p>It's pretty cute, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Invitation

Marius’s birthday is coming.

It has been a week since the arrival of the invitation, delivered with smiles and enthusiasm by Cosette herself.

( _“You will come, won’t you Papa? And Javert, of course? You must, truly, you must! I shall have no excuses from either of you! It will only be Marius and myself otherwise, and I will spend a full day in the kitchen for naught. Oh, please say you will come, Papa!”_ )

Valjean has never been one to refuse Cosette her wishes. The card that sits on the mantelpiece is small and adorned with colourful prints of flowers. It is addressed simply to ‘Papa and Javert’.

Javert has spent a week scowling in its general direction.

Valjean has pretended not to notice.

* * *

The card has gone missing more than once during the course of the week.

Valjean always finds it. Whether it is in the pocket of Javert’s greatcoat, tucked away between papers at the writing bureau, or slipped underneath the stack of logs at the fireplace, he always finds it.

Javert never looks surprised at its reappearance on the mantel.

It gets dirtier and more creased each time. Neither of them mentions it.

* * *

And then it is finally Marius’s birthday.

They are expected there in an hour. The invitation, underneath the soot smudges (from a trip to the coal-scuttle) and the dried mud (an almost fatal expedition in the garden), clearly states five o’clock.

Valjean is reading by the fire, content. His long legs are crossed before him and he is the very picture of relaxation. The coming events of the evening have not been discussed. It has not escaped Javert’s notice, however, that the man’s face is clean-shaven and scrubbed, or that there are two sets of formal clothes laid out upstairs (he does not like what Valjean has chosen for him to wear but will pass no comment until it is brought up), or that there is a small box tied with brightly-coloured ribbon sitting on the edge of the bed. No, he has seen and he has scowled at each of these in turn – but he has said nothing.

They have passed an odd day in this way.

Javert has spent the last fifteen minutes alternating between harbouring a silent grudge toward the ever-ticking clock on the mantel and reading the same line of the report he is working on roughly thirty times over. It is fair to say he has not yet entered into the spirit of the occasion.

He flicks a glance at Valjean to find the man is still damnably unaffected. Indeed, there is even a small upturn to the corner of his lip that suggests he has found something amusing in his reading. How nice for him. Javert almost feels sufficiently irritated enough to say something. Almost.

He is saved by Valjean glancing up. To be met by Javert’s glowering countenance might make a lesser man balk but Jean Valjean simply places a finger in his book to mark his place and leans back in the chair, regarding the man appraisingly.

Javert waits.

“You need a shave,” is all Valjean says before reopening his book and continuing with his reading.

He is sufficiently irritated.

“Every year,” he mutters sullenly. He sets his report to the side and stands. “We should not encourage it.”

“Hmmm?” Valjean does not even look up. Javert has set to pacing.

“That _boy_.” A hand is waved vaguely at the tattered card on the mantel. “I will celebrate the day he gets wiser, not older.”

At this Jean Valjean looks up and fixes Javert with a look that brooks no argument. “You will come, Javert.” His eyes rove over the inspector once more, a slight frown between his brows. “And you still need a shave.” He returns to his reading.

Javert scowls at the man’s bowed head. He scowls at the card on the mantel. He runs a hand over his chin and scowls again: Valjean is right, he does need a shave.

He goes upstairs. Behind him, Jean Valjean smiles into his book.

* * *

The soap he uses smells like Jean’s skin.

The thought that Jean and he share the same soap would be a tender notion for any other day but today it serves only to exasperate him; he lathers up his face quickly and does not linger on the thought of Jean’s skin.

Well. He does not linger _long_.

The razor is cool against his own skin and the concentration required is a welcome distraction. He moves the blade quickly and confidently, his thoughts so focussed that he is actually startled when he hears Valjean enter the bedroom behind him. The blade nips at his jaw.

“ _Ah_ —”

At this small noise, Valjean peers around the door to the bathroom and Javert pretends not to notice him. He leans closer to the looking glass, inspecting the injury. Blood is already trickling into the soap on his neck but it looks worse than it is.

“There,” Javert says, meeting Valjean’s eyes in the glass. “I am maimed. I cannot go.”

He tries his best to adopt a defiant expression, though he realises the effect may be lost underneath a layer of soap. The look Valjean gives him is one of quiet exasperation.

“Not quite maimed, Javert.”

“You are being your usual generous self, Valjean.” It is not a compliment. He uses a towel to dab at his jaw but it still bleeds. “You see, I am ruined. I cannot show my face.” He sounds almost hopeful.

He finally turns to face Valjean. The older man has an eyebrow raised.

“Alas,” Javert adds after a pause.

Valjean says nothing, simply retreats back into the bedroom. Javert sighs and picks up the razor again.

* * *

Valjean is still in the bedroom when Javert finishes shaving. He has already changed into his formal clothes and is just making the final knot in his cravat. He looks very smart. Javert makes a point of not telling him.

“This is a foolish occasion,” he tries instead. He crosses his arms in front of his chest and regards the other man. Valjean is taking his time with the knot. “They will not miss me.”

“ _I_ will.” Jean glances at him as he says it and Javert almost gives in. There is something powerful in the simplicity of the statement and the offhand certainty with which it is said. But Javert is stubborn.

“Then you will be the most foolish one there.” Javert considers this and tilts his head. “You may even surpass Pontmercy himself.”

Valjean is still working on his cravat, carefully ignoring him. Impatience overcomes Javert and he marches over and takes the material into his own hands. With quick, ill-tempered movements he finishes the job and sets it against Valjean’s chest. Valjean seizes the opportunity to grasp Javert’s wrists in his hands. He is grinning.

“If I go myself I may get horribly drunk and repeat your words to Marius.”

Javert wriggles his hands but Valjean’s grip is strong. He shrugs and pretends he does not care that Valjean is so close. All he can smell is soap. “Then the boy may learn something. Let him.”

Valjean makes a quiet noise of disapproval and loosens his grip around Javert’s wrists. Before the man can step away he moistens his thumb with his tongue and sets it against Javert’s jaw, rubbing absent-mindedly at the dried blood there. 

“You would not disappoint Cosette, would you?”

Javert will not deny his fondness for the girl – she is her father’s daughter after all. But while Valjean tires quickly of tales from Javert’s work, and not without reason, Cosette is always eager to hear stories of chases and mysteries and a job well done. And Javert, of course, is always eager to tell them. Javert considers this as Valjean continues caressing the side of his face.

“And Cosette loves him,” Valjean reminds him gently, taking his silence for agreement. “However foolish you might think him, Cosette is besotted with him. Marius is Cosette’s choice.”

“A foolish choice.”

He knows without even opening his eyes that Valjean is smiling. Javert has long suspected that the man enjoys his grousing.

“Yes, well, perhaps.” Valjean says mildly. “Although maybe I have not set the best example in that respect.”

 He leans in and kisses Javert quick and true upon the lips before the inspector can protest the comment.

“Do not frown so,” he advises as he steps away from the glaring Javert. “I have already laid out clothes for you.”

 “I don’t like them.”

Valjean just laughs as he leaves the room. After a moment Javert crosses to the wardrobe. He doesn’t see an alternative.

* * *

Valjean won’t stop smiling in the carriage. He alternates between kissing Javert and just beaming at him.

Javert resorts to kissing him back to stop him grinning.

It doesn’t work.

* * *

The evening passes quickly enough.

Cosette has outdone herself in the kitchen. The meat is succulent and well-flavoured and Marius heaps praise upon his wife and declares her perfect. She is modestly red-faced and laughing and genuinely pleased all at once.

After a little more wine the praise is heaped upon Valjean, who is once again declared a saint. Valjean smiles and pats the boy’s shoulder and laughs at Javert’s expression.

Javert moves the wine out of Marius’s reach after this.

For the rest of the evening Javert is perfectly civil to Marius (“ _A toast, then, to Pontmercy. At least I am not the only one getting older._ ”) and Cosette delights in the inspector’s stories. Valjean does not bother to correct Javert’s outlandish claim that the scar on his chin (“ _But Javert! You are injured; you must tell me the tale!”)_ is the work of a rogue bullet; he merely smiles into his wineglass at the inspector and his wide-eyed daughter. When the conversation is over he tries to catch Javert’s eye.

Javert does not look his way but Valjean knows the slight blush on the man’s cheeks is his doing and relishes it.

* * *

It is just before they leave that Valjean retrieves Marius’s present from the coatroom and sets it in front of the boy. 

Cosette claps her hands with joy as Marius attempts to unknot the ribbon with clumsy fingers. It is not until Javert sighs and rolls his eyes that Cosette takes pity on her drunken husband and passes him a knife to slit the ribbon (“ _See, my perfect wife, how wonderful she is—_!”).

The gift is a shining new razor.

Jean Valjean roars with laughter when Javert begins choking on the last of his wine.

* * *

Cosette sees them off at the door. Valjean tries to kiss her cheek and misses. Javert places a hand on the man’s shoulder and shares a wry look with Cosette before he bundles him into the waiting carriage.

They are barely halfway down the street when Valjean, leaning close to Javert, begins laughing again.

Javert has to ask. “What is so funny?”

He makes the mistake of turning his head to consider the man and finds that he loves Valjean’s eyes when they are bright like this, full of mirth and life. He cannot help but lean closer. Valjean seizes the opportunity. Or rather, attempts to.

It would seem that Valjean is making a habit of missing kisses. At least Javert manages to catch him before he falls off the seat entirely. He is still laughing when he wriggles out of Javert’s grip and rights himself.

“You are drunk,” accuses Javert.

“Horribly drunk,” Valjean agrees.

He laughs again when Javert rolls his eyes, gazing imploringly toward the heavens. “There. You have achieved it, Valjean. You are more foolish than Pontmercy.”

Valjean smiles warmly as he nudges closer and reaches a hand that is surprisingly steady to touch the small mark on Javert’s jaw.

“A bullet,” he mutters under his breath, with gentle scorn. With far too much coordination he manages to plant a swift kiss upon the scar and dissolves into laughter once more.

Javert, taking the laughter with little more than a light flush upon his cheeks, suspects Valjean is not as drunk as he appears.

* * *

They prepare for bed quietly.

It does not escape Javert’s notice that Valjean manages to untie his cravat with ease and unbutton his waistcoat without any problems, but he says nothing of it and slips into bed. Valjean sprawls beside him.

Javert grunts when he feels the hand at his back but he does not turn. When the hand begins to wriggle insistently under his side he caves and twists to see. Valjean catches his mouth in a messy clash of teeth and needy lips, pulling him close and using his strength to keep him there. Javert sees little point in pulling away. He notes with great satisfaction that Valjean’s mouth does not taste like a barrel of liquor. The man can hardly have drunk two glasses.

“I am glad you came,” Valjean says when he finally pauses for breath, when they are both panting. He spots a kiss to the side of Javert’s face and touches his wet lips. “You have been an outright horror all week—” He delivers the charge with a soft kiss that rather contradicts his point. “—but I knew even you could not be so stubborn.”

Javert merely grunts. He does not acknowledge defeat or his conduct of the week. He supposes that in all respects he has passed worse nights than this.  “And I knew you could not be so drunk,” he says in return. “You are as sober as I.”

A smiling Valjean traces the line of his jaw, neither confirming nor denying, but his fingers linger on the ‘bullet wound’. That too does not go unnoticed.

“You serve a peculiar type of punishment, Jean Valjean.”

The man just laughs and settles back down next to him.

It is not long before Javert feels a hand reach over and take his. Valjean links his fingers through his own and places it between them. When he speaks, he sounds perfectly sober.

“I am very happy,” he says simply.

“You are very foolish,” Javert returns without pause, but he does not remove his hand.

“Perhaps.”

There is silence for a short while and when Valjean speaks again he sounds very sleepy.

“And Javert?”

There is a questioning grumble. Valjean slides his thumb over Javert’s knuckles.

“Next year you will not hide the invitation in the garden. It was a very windy morning. Eventually I had to climb a tree to retrieve it. My shoes are ruined.”

Javert moves abruptly, sitting up to pull their joined hands before him until he is leaning over Valjean and settling easily on his hips. He looks down with a frown.

“No. Next year I shall hide it _better_ ,” is all he says before he brings his lips to meet Jean’s drowsy grin.

It is not a particularly earnest threat. He has passed worse nights than this one with people more foolish than the Pontmercy boy. He comes home each night to Jean Valjean. Life could be worse.

Tomorrow he will buy the man new shoes. 


End file.
